Never By Halves
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: Sherlock, John should have known that much by now, never does anything by halves. When he notices the first signs of an approaching sickness, he, despite his best intentions to keep a closer eye on Sherlock, puts it down to stress and exhaustion. And since Sherlock is very adept at claiming to be fine, John only slowly becomes aware of the severity of Sherlock's illness./Sick!fic
1. 1

_Hello to everyone who has stumbled here!  
_

_This is a prompt fill for Catie501 - AND it's a story I promised to write for her about ten months ago, and now, finally, it is taking the shape I want it to take. You are looking at a sick!fic which will possibly exaggerate symptoms of a certain illness and which will, in the end, be rather long, I'm afraid. So, you have been warned._

_"Never By Halves" takes place roughly two months after "His Last Vow" and deals - rudimentarily - with what you could call the "aftermath". Since it's 'just' a sick!fic, don't expect too much plot, nor too much angst (angst will come later, in another prompt fill which will be about a different situation post-HLV, and different in general)._

_Updates should be at least once a week, at least that's what I'm aiming at. The rough draft for this story has been finished for quite a while, and now it's all about polishing a tiny bit. Another warning, however - updates might be slower._

_I neither own _Sherlock_ nor the initial idea._

_Thank you, Catie, for your prompt, terribly sorry for taking ages, and please enjoy!_

* * *

**Never By Halves**

**1**

* * *

Sherlock first became aware that something was odd when the fourth cough in a row escaped him. A hoarse, scratching sound that tickled his throat and added to the dryness that had been lingering there since the previous evening, and that, to his annoyance, did not want to disappear.

He swallowed and did his best to get rid of the urge to cough yet again. Concentrate, he needed to concentrate. There was work to do.

Swallowing once more and clearing his throat only served to trigger the rise of another cough, and Sherlock closed his eyes for a brief moment as he held his breath and attempted to stifle the disgusting, rasping noise in his chest.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice, with a peculiar tone to it, cut through the silence, and Sherlock's eyes shot open. Belatedly, almost sluggishly, he realised that he had been kneeling next to the corpse for a few minutes now, magnifying glass in his hand, but not inspecting anything. "Everything alright?"

Sherlock let out a huff and refrained from clearing his throat again. "Naturally," he muttered and took a deep breath. Murder, dead woman in front of him, case. Focus. Focus.

Murder. Tight trousers, gruesome colour, jewellery, no rings, necklace. Asphyxiated, apparently, going by the marks around the dead woman's neck and throat, and…

"Got anything?" Lestrade interrupted again. This time, Sherlock stifled a sigh, as well as a cough, and got to his feet briskly, not wasting another glance at the body. The quick movement sent a sudden spark of pain through his skull, intensifying the headache that had started to pulsate more intensely through his temples earlier that day. Previously, it had merely been a dull and constant ache he had easily been able to push to the back of his mind, but now the throbbing, worsened through abrupt moving of his, was beginning to distract him.

Sherlock stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and straightened his shoulders. "What do you expect me to do?" he wanted to know. "Even Scotland Yard should be able to find out whom she was engaged to, and arrest him for murder.

Lestrade folded his arms over his chest and kept staring at him expectantly.

Sherlock cleared his throat and swallowed against the repeated urge to cough. Inconvenient, very much so, and odd, distinctively so. "It's obvious," he began, the collar of his coat brushing against the skin of his throat as he turned towards the body. Put your collar up , John's voice was saying in his head. "Murderer removed engagement ring, obviously. Untanned outline on her finger. Strangled - suggesting a passionate crime, not planned, fuelled by emotion, most likely fury, possibly love. Crime out of passion, not planned, missing engagement ring, plus her highly suggestive clothes - affair - it's her fiancé you're looking for. Obviously."

Amazing, John was saying in his head, show-off.

Doing his best to disguise his repeated attempt at clearing his throat as an annoyed sigh, Sherlock turned around to look at Lestrade again, Lestrade who simply stood there, arms still folded, scanning him with this unsettling expression on his face.

"What!" Sherlock hissed and barely refrained from rolling his eyes, a motion which would, without any doubt, only serve to increase his headache. He had been busy before Lestrade had phoned and had practically begged him to come and have a look, and he _had_ agreed to come, God knew why, had come, only to find… this. A boring scene, a boring case, obvious murder, violent and therefore passionate, and the missing engagement ring. And then the annoying dryness in his throat, causing coughing and adding to his recently rather persistent exhaustion that was pulling at his limbs even now.

"Nothing," Lestrade answered belatedly, his gaze focused on Sherlock for a few seconds longer and then skittering to the dead woman. "Her fiancé, then," he said.

"Her fiancé, yes," Sherlock confirmed and pulled his scarf more neatly around his neck. Murder fuelled by the impulsive notion of anger and being betrayed - she had been an adulterer, obviously, going by her clothes -, no meticulous planning. Simple, really.

Another cough surprised Sherlock when Lestrade spoke up again: "So," he said, in an awkward voice that clearly suggested conversation, small-talk, "Where's John, then? How's the baby?"

Sherlock swallowed against the unpleasant feeling in his throat and gave a minuscule shrug. Inconvenient, very much so. He did not have time or energy to waste for his body's capers. "Still not born yet," he replied curtly.

"Ah," Lestrade commented unintelligibly. "And John?"

John.

For a moment, a brief moment, Sherlock allowed himself to dwell on the delusion of John next to him, examining the body, coming to his own conclusion that was, however inferior to Sherlock's own, always useful, valuable.

But no. With an abrupt headshake, he succeeded in chasing away that very resilient phantasm and focused on his mobile instead, fumbling for it in his coat pocket. "Fine, I expect," he told Lestrade while he was staring at the text he had received.

John, of course.

_Care for take-away this evening? Mary has cravings. J_

"You expect," Lestrade repeated.

_Busy_, he texted John. _Give my love to Mary. S_

"Yes," he replied distractedly, pocketing his phone again. "You know, with his job, his life. And no, before you ask, I haven't seen him recently. I'm busy."

Stifling the onset of another cough, Sherlock turned and started walking, away from the dead woman, away from Lestrade - who, unfortunately, followed him. "Listen, Sherlock…," he began, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's upper arm.

This time, Sherlock could not keep himself from rolling his eyes as he stilled. "For God's sake, Lestrade," he muttered, without investing the energy to actually sound exasperated. There was, it seemed, only so much time one's body could function with an hour or two of sleep at most, despite the days and weeks he had spent with almost no sleep during his two years away, while dismantling Moriarty's criminal web. "Really not the time for that now."

Lestrade's grip did not disappear. "So," he said, "how are you?"

Sherlock wanted to groan and wriggle away, but suppressed the urge to do so. Polite, John's voice reminded him. "Fine," he said non-committally, concentrating on this ludicrous and completely unnecessary conversation rather than on the pounding inside of his skull, and added: "Now let me go, I am _busy_."

"You don't look too fine," Lestrade replied quietly, and Sherlock had to fight the temptation to let his eyes drift close for a second, Lestrade's familiar voice surrounding him and enwrapping him. But no. Stupid. Stupid. He tensed instead and took a small step backwards, as far as Lestrade's grip would allow it. "What," he demanded, hoarsely.

"I haven't seen you around much since this… thing," Lestrade finally went on.

Sherlock swallowed against the dryness in his throat and closed his burning eyes for a brief moment. Sleep, he needed sleep. But no, he couldn't. Busy. Not yet. Not with… this _thing_.

"You know," Lestrade went on and at last released his arm, "even if he's after you again," he interrupted himself, and Sherlock could feel his fingernails dig into his palms, thankfully hidden inside of his coat pockets, "Moriarty, I mean, this time, you won't be alone. We're keeping an eye out for him, and John will…"

"Oh, for God's sake, Lestrade," Sherlock cut him off as sharply as possible without having to clear his throat. He hunched his shoulders against the cold wind, his trembling right hand fumbling for his once again chiming phone in his coat pocket. "Stop being dull or I will ignore your texts for at least a month. I'm fine, perfectly fine."

John, again.

_Case? Need some help? I could stop by after work. J_

_No need to_, he typed. _Busy._

Sherlock shook his head curtly and stifled a cough. Busy. Work to do. And John had a family now.

Lestrade had not said anything, but kept looking at him. "You don't look too fine," he repeated, stupidly. "Maybe…"

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock interrupted him, his temples throbbing, his throat burning. "I suggest you focus on doing your job instead of having me do it and refrain from any further advices you clearly are not qualified to give."

The very moment he had uttered the words, Sherlock realised that he might have gone too far. He closed his eyes again, briefly, and willed Lestrade to simply let it go.

Lestrade, however, did not seem taken aback too much. "Sherlock," he began again.

Sherlock shoved both of his hands into his coat pockets and swallowed once, twice, stifled another cough. "I am busy," he repeated and turned his back towards Lestrade and the body.

Lestrade's voice, still with that weird quality to it, stopped him dead in his tracks. "You haven't heard anything from… _him_, have you?"

_Him._ This… thing.

_Him._

Sherlock gritted his teeth and clenched his right hand tightly around his mobile phone, almost itching to hurl it against the next best police car. Forced himself to turn his head slowly, not jerk it around and cause fresh waves of pain to radiate through his skull and brain.

Blasted headache. He needed to _concentrate_!

"No," he replied curtly, his muscles tensing. Moriarty. Lestrade wanted to know if Moriarty - or whoever had been behind this video that had saved him from exile and death as a result of six months of undercover work in Eastern Europe - had contacted him, had maybe uttered a threat. "No," he repeated and did his best ignore the dry tickling in his throat that so annoyingly refused to leave his transport alone.

Lestrade kept studying him for a moment and finally nodded faintly. "Okay," he agreed. "Just… you know you can call me, any time."

Call Lestrade. John. Family.

"Are we done now!" Sherlock snapped, a cough building in his chest. He shuddered in the cool wind, despite himself.

Lestrade gave a sigh and nodded vaguely. "Yeah, done," he replied and gestured towards the dead woman. "We'll concentrate on her fiancé. Thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes closed for a moment, for the fourth time in as many minutes, only to fly open again as soon as Lestrade's voice reached his ears once more: "Sherlock… take care, alright?"

Without any further remark, Sherlock managed a curt nod and turned around, finally, away from Lestrade, towards the main road to catch a cab.

Take care, Lestrade had said. He swallowed and did, this time, not even bother to fight the urge to cough. Take care. There were more important things to be done.

* * *

_Thank you very much for reading. Please let me know what you thought._


	2. 2

_Wow! I am positively shocked by the response to this story after only one chapter, shocked and thrilled and amazed! Thank you all for reading, reviewing, following and favouriting!_

_Then, secondly, please forgive me for the delay. Both time and motivation to write have been absent for about two weeks, and because of your interest, I wanted to take the time to give you a proper chapter that deserves the title and not just... anything to shorten the wait. Here we are now, and I hope to be able to stick to my original idea of posting a new part once a week from now on._

_And for those of you were wondering: I _will_ finish this story, even if updates might take a bit longer sometimes._

_Thank you again, and please enjoy._

* * *

**Never By Halves**

**2**

* * *

The urge to cough, Sherlock noticed distractedly and with a certain sense of irritation, had not decreased in frequency by the time he had arrived at home and had seated himself in front of his laptop in his living room. His eyes were staring at the screen, tired and burning, and yet Sherlock found himself unable to concentrate for the moment, his skull pounding viciously. Something indescribable continued to weigh down his limbs, adding to the constant company of his exhaustion and pulling at his legs and arms. Sleep, a voice that of course sounded like John's reminded him, he needed sleep.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, still ignoring the unpleasant tickling in his throat, and contemplated, his thoughts oddly sluggish, owing to his exhaustion as well as his pounding headache, when he had last slept. The day before yesterday, a nap to two hours. Probably.

Pulling himself together, Sherlock shook his head and exhaled. No, no time for that now. Work to do. Blinking once, twice, he forced his gaze to focus on the screen again, determined to finally finish this case of Mycroft's superiors, the few he still had. Insurance fraud, a series of insurance frauds, stupid, boring. And nonetheless there was something, had to be _something_ he had missed until now.

Another cough disrupted his tentative concentration, a wave of his so inconvenient tiredness crashing over him, familiar by now. Despite himself, Sherlock's eyes settled, for a second, on John's empty chair, his body longing for the softness of the sofa, or the armchair, or the warmth of his bed.

Symptoms, John might have said. Symptoms. Cough, exhaustion, headache…

John would, of course, be angry at him, his brain supplied without further incentive. He kept telling Sherlock - even now, without being present, with Sherlock doing his best to stop John from visiting all the time - that he needed to sleep more regularly, and, even more importantly, needed to sleep _more_.

But no.

He swallowed and wrenched his closing eyes open, determined not to lose himself in vain memories and useless delusions. There was a case that demanded his full attention - not Lestrade's, obviously, because of which he had just wasted precious time -, and distraction was the last thing he could afford right now. A tickle rose in Sherlock's throat, threatening to erupt into more coughing. He held his breath and concentrated, cursing his weak transport that of course decided to need some rest now, to malfunction now when he coud least allow it to, when he was not allowed to let down his guard and make even the smallest mistake. Not now.

Abruptly, Sherlock tore his gaze away from the empty piece of furniture, directing it back to the laptop once more, his throat burning, his eyes burning.

Transport, simply transport. There were more important things to be done. Mycroft's case first, then another glance at everything he had collected so far about the video.

His jaw clenched at this thought, despite himself, and the well-known pain in his temples, in his forehead, skull, radiated through his entire body for a few seconds, forcefully enough to make him stiffen in his chair, black dots dancing across his vision.

Inconvenient, so very inconvenient.

"Transport," he muttered hoarsely to himself and concentrated on the screen.

(-)

Sherlock did not know how much time had passed until his head, throbbing more viciously than before, forced him to concede defeat and get to his feet, to go to the bathroom, in search of something that contained paracetamol, anything, to get rid of the pain in his skull. The tiredness of his muscles, it seemed as he sat down in his chair again, heavily, was trying to outrival the soreness of his throat, and his head's pounding had not yet lessened, despite the pills he had indeed found and swallowed.

Sleep, John's voice told him again, John who wasn't here, sleep.

"No," Sherlock croaked into the empty room, James Moriarty's face frozen on the screen of his laptop, a fragment of the video. He had disregarded Mycroft's case for the sake of finding the Moriarty-impostor for the moment, finding whoever was behind this video, and he needed to solve this case. Needed to expose the creator of the video, needed to keep the vow he had made. No traces as of yet, absolutely nothing, but there had to be something, he had to have overlooked something.

Sherlock coughed, but did not care. Whoever was behind that, behind the video, they were not allowed to get the chance to present a danger to anyone close to him. Not again.

Not again.

His eyes kept burning even as he rubbed them, and the dryness in his throat did not allow his coughing to subside, but turned it into a hoarse, long fit that shook his entire body.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, only to have Moriarty's grinning grimace appear in his mind, haunt his very thoughts, a monotonous, sardonic "Did you miss me?" on his lips.

The image, an image that kept pursuing him, jerked his eyes back open, and him back to reality.

John, John would help, the thought crossed Sherlock's throbbing mind while he was blinking slowly to keep his eyes from closing. John would make tea, would sit there, in his armchair, would ask the one question or make the one remark Sherlock's brain needed to draw the correct conclusion, but John was not here. For a moment, in the silence of his empty living room, his head pounding in tact with his heart and suffocating exhaustion pulling at every single limb, Sherlock's resolve almost crumbled. Almost gave in, almost allowed him to text John, almost, before he got himself back under control, pulled himself together.

No. Another cough escaped him, adding to his headache. No, he could not drag John into this mess, could not maneouvre John into danger again, not after everything, not with Moriarty. He _would_ not.

No John, not this time. This time, he would have to be fine on his own, would have to investigate on his own, and keep doing so, no matter what other ideas his mind might come up with.

He would _not _allow something similar to happen to John ever again. No.

Sherlock took a deep breath, did his best to swallow the approaching cough and concentrated to ignore his body's inopportune needs.

(-)

The first thing he became aware of was the sound of merry humming approaching, penetrating the fuzzy cocoon his brain had melted into. The darkness behind his closed lids helped to soothe his headache, however minimally, and his eyes would not, at first, open. When they did, finally, they were greeted with the sight of his own table, at, however, an odd angle, as well as by a hot, surging wave of pain in his neck when he moved, or attempted to.

"Oh," Mrs Hudson's voice reached him, startled him, her small steps shuffling about, "back from your case already? I didn't mean to wake you, dear."

Raising his head from where it had been resting on the table, from where he had obviously, although inexplicably, fallen asleep while working, while sitting up, sent more rivulets of pain through his skull, extending towards his neck, his arms, even his legs. Sherlock blinked and attempted to make sense of what had happened, of why he had allowed his transport to nod off when he was so clearly busy.

"You really shouldn't sleep like that," Mrs Hudson muttered. "It's not good for your neck, dear."

He had, naturally, not intended to fall asleep, Sherlock wanted to inform her, but the only sound his vocal folds were willing to form was a hoarse croak, halting, aggravating his dry throat. He coughed, could not control it, his throat burning, neck stiff and head throbbing viciously. His eyes closed, despite himself, for a few seconds, a vain attempt to numb the persistent hammering, and the bliss of unconsciousness, he found, had not appeared so appealing in a long time.

Sleep, a voice told him again, John informed him, he needed sleep.

He flinched, to his surprise, when Mrs Hudson spoke up again. "I'll be at my sister's for the next few days," she began, her voice floating through the flat as she made her way to his kitchen, "but…"

Sherlock's next cough, hitting him without any time for preparation, submerged her words and drowned out everything apart from the burning, tearing sensation in his throat. It was ridiculous, he attempted to tell himself, absolutely ridiculous how much energy it took him to force his eyes open once he had caught his breath, his leaden, heavy lids. Tired, why was he so tired…

Sleep, John's voice reminded him, go to bed tonight instead of staying up and working, and Sherlock, pressing his softly trembling fingers to his temple, a feeble effort to distract himself from his stabbing headache, almost felt inclined to give in.

Sleep. Just a few hours, just a bit…

"Sorry," he made as soon as he realised that Mrs Hudson was staring at him from the kitchen door, expectantly. "You were saying?"

She huffed under her breath, Sherlock noticed sluggishly as he struggled against his eyes which wanted to close once again, then folded her arms over her chest. "You should have John take a look at that cough of yours," she told him. "With the way you take care of yourself, it really wouldn't be a…"

Instead of rolling his eyes, Sherlock let them flutter closed, just for a moment. "Mrs Hudson," he interrupted her, his voice hoarse and not nearly as sharp as intended, and promptly had to stifle another cough, rising from his chest.

Cough, John's voice said in his head, exhaustion, headache. Coming down with something. A cold, the flu. Sleep.

Sherlock only noticed that his eyes had remained closed when Mrs Hudson's voice startled him once more, and his lids flew open. "You know," she said, arms still folded, from the door to the kitchen, "we're all worried about you."

Worried about him. He was fine, perfectly fine.

"Yes, thank you, I'm aware," he croaked while Mrs Hudson kept staring at him, and successfully stifled a cough. "Absolutely no need for that."

Mrs Hudson huffed again and finally shuffled back into his kitchen, to his kettle, busying herself, hopefully, with making tea.

Tea. John had always made tea.

Sherlock stared at the screen of his laptop in front of him, black, void of any of the documents he was supposed to skim through, his body longing, to his disgust, for his bed. Stupid, and inconvenient, and not in the least enough to warrant worry. Obviously not.

"After all that… you know," Mrs Hudson added, her words ending in a little choked sob. The kettle in her hand, even Sherlock's burning eyes could see that, trembled.

After all that. Of course. All that. Drugs, shot, being exiled, Moriarty. All that.

"I'm fine," he hissed and pressed his knuckles to his right temple. This headache… Something stronger than paracetamol, than over-the-counter medication, would help, might have helped, but since John had lived at 221B again, until Christmas, there wasn't anything here. Paracetamol, nothing else.

"If you say so," Mrs Hudson replied belatedly and finally put the kettle on. Sherlock's eyes closed. "As I was saying," she went on, her voice floating towards him from the kitchen, floating around the edges of his throbbing consciousness, "I'm off to my sister's for a few days, but I have filled your fridge, so you should be fine for a few days. There's still a bit of leftover from yesterday, and I bought milk, cheese, vegetables, bread…"

She continued talking, but Sherlock did no longer listen, could not muster the energy to listen. There had to be something, his mind told him, something. But nothing so far, absolutely nothing, nothing on Moriarty, or rather the one who had published this video, the one who had assumed a dead man's name - because Moriarty, the man himself, was most certainly dead, and had decided to play another game with Sherlock. He could not find it, was incapable of finding it, needed to work harder, needed to concentrate…

The fingers of his right hand dug into the fabric of his trousers. Could not fail. Not again.

"…'ll be back on Friday, dear," Mrs Hudson ended her monologue, appearing next to him, and Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Here's your tea, just as you like it."

Nothing, absolutely nothing, Sherlock's mind echoed as he squinted his tired eyes at Mrs Hudson, blinked slowly. Nothing whatsoever. Tea, he registered, she had made tea. "Thank you," he wanted to say, tea, almost like John's, but his words drowned in a cough, and this time, he neither had the time nor the chance to stifle it.

"Oh Sherlock," he could hear Mrs Hudson say once he was able to breathe again, properly, breathe and feel the cool air stream through his raw throat. "Surely this case of yours can wait for a few hours, don't you think?"

Wait. Sleep. Case. Moriarty. Another cough startled him and scattered his futile thoughts, directing them back to the present. He was supposed to snap at Mrs Hudson, to tell her to stop mothering him and then concentrate on finally tackling that organisation he had to investigate on behalf of Mycroft's superiors, to make up for the undercover work he was failing to do now… His burning eyes, however, threatened to close yet again, and Sherlock could not find the energy to prevent it.

"Mh," he made instead, oddly drowsy, oddly comfortable with his eyes closed and the smell of Mrs Hudson's tea in his nose.

"And call John, will you," she added, her soft steps shuffling about a little more.

"Mh," Sherlock repeated, coughing faintly, and forced his eyes open. No. Not yet. Not now. Case. Work. Needed to finish.

He did not know how it happened, or why, or when, or why again, but eventually, his head hit the table with a loud noise, tendrils of pain shooting through it, and his eyes were closed again, Mrs Hudson gone.

Sleep, John's voice reminded him, and this time, Sherlock gave in. No use in trying to work like that, think like that, with his body failing him and making it impossible for his brain to function properly.

Stiffly, all of his muscles and tendons aching, he got up from his chair and made his way to his bedroom. The world was turning around him for a bit, the kitchen, the hallway, and the pounding in his skull had, if possible, intensified.

Sherlock struggled his way of his shirt and trousers and into a loose tee, wide trousers and his blue dressing gown. Blue, he decided hazily and failed to stifle a cough, blue, the old one would have to do. Could not possibly risk having mucus or spit from his atrocious, annoying coughing on his new ones, on the red gown, or the camel one. Blue.

One hand clamped around his mouth to stop another onsetting cough, he ventured to the bathroom, decided against the effort it would take to shower, dry-swallowed two more pills, another dose of medication for his blasted headache, hopefully strong enough, and then even found an unopened bottle of cough syrup.

Good, very good.

Without bother to read the blurring package insert, he poured a bit of the viscous liquid into his toothbrush mug, not ready to summon the energy or motivation to fetch a spoon and do it properly, and swallowed that, too.

Stifling a yawn, his exhaustion finally threatening to overwhelm him, Sherlock scuffled on into the living room and eased himself, carefully, mindful of his stabbing skull that might be aggravated by any quick movement, down on the sofa.

He coughed a bit, and shifted, trying to find a comfortable position for his stiff and sore neck, shivered in the coolness of the room.

One of Mrs Hudson's ugly afghans was lying on the edge of the sofa, ugly and hideous and old, but for the moment, it would have to suffice. Mind palace, Sherlock told himself and blinked to keep his heavy eyes open, needed to access his mind palace and examine everything again, to find out what he was missing. Or a quick nap, maybe, very quick, just in order to refresh his failing transport. Then he would go back to work, would finally crack that bloody case of Mycroft's superiors, would concentrate on finding the Moriarty-impostor and hunting him down himself, if necessary.

Just a quick nap.

Another cough shook him as he unfolded the afghan, nuzzled his cold feet into the soft fabric and pulled it up to his raw, sore throat.

Sherlock angled his legs for a bit of warmth, drew them closer to his body, and finally allowed his eyes to close, the darkness around him numbing his raging headache a bit, even if not the soreness of his throat or his useless exhaustion.

Just a quick nap, he reminded himself, needed to set the alarm on his mobile, to be on the safe side. Needed to…

Unfortunately, however, and to the detriment for Sherlock's plans, he was asleep, truly and deeply asleep, before he could even finish the thought.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought._


	3. 3

_I am once more both terribly sorry for the delay and at the same time ridiculously amazed by your continued interest.  
_

_Beware of the early onset of fluff and two certain former flatmates being far too complicated for their own good._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**Never By Halves**

**3**

* * *

John Watson was, after a long, uneventful day at work, on his way to Baker Street, tapping his fingers on his thigh, when his phone beeped. Sherlock, probably, telling him for the second time today that he could not spare any time and that John did absolutely not need to come over because he was so _busy_.

Nope, John decided within split seconds, definitely not going to work. He had, after he had come home from his shift at the surgery and found his sofa occupied by his enormous, pregnant wife and one of her friends - the most annoying one who had been, quite apparently, enjoying herself very much in front of the telly -, made up his mind to pay his best friend a visit, no matter what said friend might think about that, and had sent another text to Sherlock's phone, announcing that he was coming over - instead of inviting Sherlock to their flat for take-away since Mary was busy otherwise, and Sherlock claimed to be.

_Everything alright with Sherlock? Seemed a bit under the weather. Greg_

John stared at the message - most definitely not from Sherlock - and then pocketed his phone, stifling a sigh. The tapping of his fingers ceased, and his right hand clenched into a fist instead.

Under the weather.

John pursed his lips and returned to staring out of the window, houses and streets gliding by slowly in the traffic of an early Friday afternoon.

Under the weather.

Sherlock had been… on edge, ever since his not quite exile.

John's fingernails dug into his palm, painfully, and for a moment, he failed to shake off the horror that crept on him whenever he thought of what would have happened if there hadn't been a video, a video of Moriarty. No-one had ever explicitly stated it, of course, but John wasn't stupid, and although he only had a vague idea of what had occurred during Sherlock's two-year absence, he had realised, fully realised as soon as he had seen the expression in Sherlock's eyes on that bloody tarmac, that this exile would not have ended so well. That Sherlock might not have come back this time. That he would have been gone for good.

John clenched his teeth, his left hand tensing and following the example of his right one.

No, he decided again. Not again. He had been unable to do anything, had been powerless from the moment when Sherlock had pulled that trigger almost three months ago and had put a bullet into Magnussen's brain, had not had any say concerning his best friend's fate.

But not now, not this time. Sherlock could be as tight-lipped as he wanted to, could try to stop John from being a part of his life, could try to keep John away from cases and from doing a bit of research on that video for himself, but it was not going to work. It absolutely wasn't.

After everything that had happened last year, when John had come so close to losing Sherlock again, for real this time, and with Moriarty - possibly - still alive, or at least with some impostor, he had never been more determined to keep his eyes open and watch out for Sherlock because the bloody idiot was too busy with other things and couldn't be bothered to do it himself.

John's jaw muscles tensed involuntarily when he thought back to Greg's text. There had to have been a case if Greg had seen Sherlock recently and had noticed that he wasn't as fine as he always stubbornly claimed to be, a crime scene to which Sherlock had gone, once more, on his own, without even considering informing John.

There had to have been a case if Greg had seen Sherlock and noticed that he wasn't as perfectly fine as he always stubbornly claimed to be, a crime scene to which Sherlock had gone, once more, on his own, without even thinking of informing John. In the months that had passed since Christmas, since Magnussen, Sherlock had been working on his own far more often than John would have liked him to, both for the government - top-secret, according to Sherlock, which meant that John was not allowed to know anything - and, as John suspected, investigating the video or whoever was responsible for it - once more without John.

Under the weather.

John pursed his lips, his gaze still fixed on the window. Under the weather.

Sherlock had, for more than two months now, done his very best to keep John away, whenever possible, claiming that he was busy, working, did not have time, or that Mary needed John and John was supposed to be at home, with his wife.

Under the weather.

Today, John determined, he would not allow Sherlock to distract him, to change the topic or to push him away, and he would, in turn, make sure that Sherlock ate, drank and for once actually talked to John.

He would be there for his best friend, no matter what. He would.

But first, he needed to stop by somewhere else.

(-)

John managed to unlock the front door to 221B without dropping any of the boxes with take-away dinner he had picked up from Angelo's, or spilling pasta all over the pavement.

"Mrs Hudson?" he asked, the door falling shut behind him. The smell of the meal Angelo himself had prepared in a rush was wavering through the hallway as John hesitated, waiting for an answer, Mrs Hudson's voice, maybe, or Sherlock's, for any sound of commotion in 221B, to tell him that Sherlock was at home.

There hadn't been another text from Sherlock, not even to inform John that he should stay with Mary and his unborn child. For a split second, while he was standing and listening, a familiar uneasy feeling rose in the pit of his stomach, a sensation that welled up now and then since Sherlock's failed exile and Moriarty's video.

"Sherlock?" he called and shook his head to get rid of the thoughts of somebody breaking in, attacking Sherlock, of Moriarty back, here, at 221B. Squaring his shoulders, John finally approached the stairs, taking two steps at once, the boxes tightly in his grip. For a moment, he wondered why he hadn't though of bringing his gun, just in case.

"Sherlock?" he repeated and pursed his lips, jogging up the stairs. No, he told himself. Sherlock was _fine_, certainly.

The flat seemed to be silent, too silent for Sherlock to be in, when John mounted the final steps, his pulse thrumming in his carotid artery. "Sherlock?" he called again, pushed the door open, stepped into the living room.

The flat was quiet indeed, apart from his own, loud breathing and a hoarse, but familiar voice, a mere croak, coming from the sofa.

"John?" Sherlock mumbled and raised his head from where it had been resting on the armrest of the sofa. "Wha's wrong?"

John stopped, his eyes settling on his best friend. Or rather, the lump that was his best friend, covered by one of Mrs Hudson's old afghans, pulled up to his neck, not much more peeking out beneath it but the mess of Sherlock's hair and his face, eyes narrowed.

Belatedly, with a sudden stab of guilt, John realised that Sherlock had, probably, been _asleep _before he had pounded upstairs, yelled his best friend's name and most definitely woken him.

Asleep. God knew how long it had been since Sherlock had last had a proper rest, and now John had gone and woken him.

"John?" Sherlock repeated hoarsely and gave a cough, his head dropping back to the armrest while he was trying to press his face into the afghan to muffle the sound at the same time.

John approached fully, putting the boxes from Angelo's down to the coffee table, his eyes still scanning his best friend.

Under the weather, as Greg had put it, was definitely an appropriate description.

Huddled into the afghan, eyes closed as he sucked in a breath once after the short bout of coughing, cheekbones as pronounced as they had been three days ago, at John's last visit, jutting out sharply. The dark circles beneath Sherlock's eyes that had been lingering there for weeks hadn't disappeared, but rather darkened since then, telling very distinct stories of sleepless nights and long cases which John had to, apparently, be kept away from because they involved governmental secrets, as well as betraying that Sherlock had, most likely, not slept in days.

John felt his heart flutter in his chest for a moment, at Sherlock's paleness and the slackness of his face once his coughing fit had abated, felt it flutter in a way that had become far too familiar after two nights he had spent in a hospital chair only a few months ago, worrying, hoping that Sherlock would not die from a bullet wound and internal bleeding.

Stop it, he scolded himself. Sherlock appeared tired, exhausted, yes, his body's need to rest catching up him with, after days, probably, with only short naps, but it was nothing, nothing dangerous, nothing that could be compared to a bullet in the chest.

"John?" Sherlock mumbled sluggishly and blinked his eyes open, his left hand moving to his temple, the tips of his fingers pressing against his skin.

Possible headache, John's instincts started cataloguing, his lips pursing. Cough, hoarse voice. Exhaustion, quite apparently. Under the weather. "You were asleep," he remarked, for the lack of anything else to say, and almost expected Sherlock to roll his eyes at his stating the obvious.

Sherlock shifted beneath his afghan, his eyelids drooping. "Brilliant deduction," he murmured.

Everything John had wanted to ask, had wanted to talk about and tell Sherlock - about Sherlock's cases, about the bloody video, about Sherlock's sheer stubbornness to keep John out of everything, no matter whether John wanted to be left out or wanted to be part of Sherlock's life and of the danger that was imminent, about Greg's case - vanished into thin air at the sight of his best friend, beyond tired and definitely not well.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asked and sat down on the coffee table, the fingers of his right hand tingling.

Sherlock coughed and closed his eyes. "Not 'mportant," he muttered and shifted again. "Busy."

John clenched his jaw and exhaled. "Right," he made. "I can see that."

Sherlock frowned, rubbing his temple almost absent-mindedly while at the same time opening his eyes, locking his gaze onto John. "John," he mumbled. "Didn' you get my text? Told you to stay at home. No need to come. 'm fine."

"Yes," John agreed and leaned forwards. "That's why you look as if you're coming down with something."

"…fine," Sherlock mumbled again, and promptly ruined what little confidence his statement had held when he coughed softly and his eyes fluttered shut.

Under the weather, Greg had said in his text.

Over-worked, rather, John assumed, pursing his lips. Stressed out. Utterly exhausted. He didn't know - Sherlock hadn't bothered to inform him, and had, when John had started prying, always very cleverly changed the topic - how many cases Sherlock had taken since his exile, how many hours he had spent on trying to find out who was responsible for the video snippet of Moriarty, and how many hours he had actually slept, or how many times he had remembered to eat when John hadn't been there to nag him to.

Not nearly enough, that much was obvious, especially for someone who had just recovered from a near-fatal gunshot wound and constantly wreaked havoc on his immune system by treating his own body as nothing more but transport. John did not even want to think about when Sherlock had last had a proper meal, providing his body with nutrients and not just barely enough to keep him going.

Sherlock coughed again, not even trying to muffle it this time, and all but buried his nose in his blanket.

"Sherlock," John said, perking up his ears at the repeated cough rising from his best friend's chest, "how long have you had that cough?"

"Mh," Sherlock made, his brow furrowing. "G'home, John," he insisted, even though his words were sluggish and slurred. "'m fine."

"Absolutely," John returned and placed the back of his hand on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock's eyes shot open and focused on John for a moment, before he then obviously decided that it wasn't worth putting up a fight.

"You're a bit warm," John muttered and frowned when Sherlock didn't squirm beneath his hand, "but you don't have a fever."

Sherlock cleared his throat and allowed his lids to flutter closed over hazy eyes. Exhausted, definitely. "Mh," he repeated, and coughed again.

John withdrew his hand from Sherlock's warm forehead and regarded his best friend again. Dark circles beneath his eyes, pale. But then, Sherlock was always pale, and that hadn't changed after he had almost died twice in a row from massive blood loss. He felt cold, apparently, or else he wouldn't be buried beneath Mrs Hudson's old afghan, and he seemed more asleep than awake.

Cough, exhaustion, chills. Headache, possibly, at least if Sherlock's hand that had once more moved to his temple was anything to go by. Exhaustion.

"Anything else?" John wanted to know. "Apart from the cough and your tiredness? Headache, nausea, difficulty breathing, anything?"

"Stop worrying," Sherlock slurred and pulled the afghan up to his neck, but once more, as John noted with a growing feeling of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, his voice completely lacked its usual sharpness.

"It's not easy not to worry about you," he muttered to himself, but Sherlock heard him. He huffed drowsily, a huff which quickly turned into another cough, and then croaked something that sounded suspiciously like "…totally unwarranted".

John swallowed against the growing lump in his throat. "Sherlock," he began, then pursed his lips. Under the weather, definitely. It really wouldn't come as that much of a surprise if Sherlock had managed to catch a bug, with the way he kept treating his body, and…

"'m fine," Sherlock mumbled stubbornly, his words slow, drowsy.

No, John decided. Whatever it was that was ailing Sherlock, he was not fine. "Is there anything else?" he repeated.

This time, Sherlock didn't respond, did not stir. Soft puffs of air were emerging from his slightly open mouth, his jaw limp, relaxed in sleep, left hand dangling from the sofa, and only then John realised that he had drifted off.

For a moment, he had to fight the urge to simply let Sherlock sleep. But no. Not yet. Not here, not on the sofa.

"Sherlock," he tried again, swallowed, rested a hand on his best friend's shoulder. "Sherlock, wake up."

Sherlock winced ever so slightly when John shook his shoulder, softly, and his eyes opened slowly. "Is there anything else?" John repeated calmly. "Any other symptoms?"

"Mh," Sherlock sighed hoarsely, and although his eyes remained open, they appeared hazy, and his hand found its way to his temple once more. "'m fine, John."

Headache, definitely, John concluded.

Then Sherlock coughed again, his eyes closing, and the sentence he had been about to utter was swallowed by his fit, except for its ending: "…tired."

Tired. A word Sherlock never uttered willingly if he could help it, if he felt like himself. John's throat narrowed at this final confirmation, if he had ever needed one, that Sherlock was, without any doubt, absolutely knackered.

"Okay," he announced, getting up from the coffee table and ignoring the tight knot that was consolidating in his stomach. "That's it. Come on, you can't sleep here."

Sherlock didn't budge, didn't open his eyes. "Case," he insisted, and yet his words were barely more than a slurred, drowsy whisper.

"Nope," John told him and grabbed hold of Sherlock's afghan, uncovering him. "Whatever you're investigating, it can wait. You're in no condition to do any work."

Sherlock only pressed his nose into the sofa cushion and furrowed his brow, his hand still at his temple. "…shouldn' be here," he mumbled, and John's stomach dropped even further at how utterly spent he sounded. Of course Sherlock would have gone and run himself into the ground until his body simply couldn't take any more, until he crashed completely. Of course.

"Come on," John repeated and grabbed Sherlock's shoulders gently, forced him to shift into a slumped but sitting position, huddling into his blue dressing gown without the warmth of his blanket. "Can you manage?" he wanted to know when Sherlock gave a short cough, and then swallowed. Sherlock looked, frankly, terrible, and John had needed to find him almost catatonic on his sofa to realise that Sherlock's pushing himself so hard would, eventually, take its toll.

"'course," Sherlock croaked, blinking to keep his eyes from closing fully. "John," he then added, a cough interrupting him, and raised his head to find John's gaze. "You don't have to…" Another cough cut him off and turned the rest of his sentence into nothing more but a wheezy breath that had John's throat narrowing. "…do that." He swallowed visibly, took a deep breath and went on before John could think of anything to say: "It's…," he began, then stopped. "Go home, John. Stay with Mary, and your baby…"

Enough, John decided, and interrupted him: "Mary's fine without me for a while, you know? She's pregnant, not sick. And she's not the one I found passed out on the sofa this evening," he added. He could feel the fingers of his right hand dig into Sherlock's skin as they clenched, involuntarily. How long exactly had it been since Sherlock had got any proper sleep, not only a nap of a few hours? And why the hell hadn't he forced Sherlock to rest earlier, three days ago, why only now? He would have to pay more attention from now on, John told himself. "And that's why you're going to your bedroom right now, and you're going to stay there and sleep. Got that?" he asked.

To his surprise, Sherlock didn't attempt to protest again, but nodded instead, and slowly got to his feet, making his way through the living room and to the kitchen, towards his bedroom, John's right hand still on his shoulder.

"Alright?" John wanted to know and did not take his eyes from Sherlock, loose clothes and Mrs Hudson's afghan hanging from his gaunt frame, his unsteady tottering betraying his exhaustion.

"Fine," Sherlock mumbled, not sharply enough to snap at John, and didn't even roll his eyes. John swallowed thickly.

Sherlock's room was tidy as always, his bed meticulously made - Mrs Hudson's doing, most likely - when he all but collapsed to the mattress, scrambling beneath the covers with John's assistance, another frown settling on his forehead.

"Want anything for your headache?" John asked and took the afghan out of Sherlock's limp fingers.

"'m fine," Sherlock muttered drowsily without opening his eyes, a short cough escaping him. "No need to…"

Sherlock was, John assumed, asleep before he had managed to tuck the covers around his best friend and spread the afghan on top of the bedsheets.

Pursing his lips, John scanned Sherlock once more, brought his palm to Sherlock's forehead to check for a fever again, found none. Sherlock didn't stir, but slept on, knees brought up to his chest, exhaling through slightly parted lips.

"Sleep well," John muttered and found himself unable to tear away his gaze from Sherlock yet. "I'll be in the living room."

He would go home later that evening, John decided, but not yet. An evening with now cold take-away noodles and mindless telly on minimum volume, at least until he was sure that Sherlock would remain deeply asleep, for his own sake, and that nothing else was behind his exhaustion but lack of sleep and nutrition. He would go home later, John determined, but he would be back tomorrow. He absolutely would, not matter what Sherlock would say.

* * *

_Thank you very much for reading! Please let me know what you thought._


	4. 4

_I can't even begin to explain how sorry I am for keeping you all waiting for more than a month. Please believe me that I didn't intend to do so, and although I haven't managed to reply to any of your reviews, I am nonetheless thrilled and very, very grateful about every single one of them and your continued interest!_

_Life has recently been busy, but I hope to be able to write the next chapter more quickly._

_A special thank you - apart from the gratitude I owe to all of you - goes to Dangsoo who offered to beta for me and had a thorough look at this chapter!_

_I'll shut up now - enjoy!_

* * *

**Never By Halves**

**4**

* * *

Sherlock was, when John checked on him one last time before heading home, about three hours later, still asleep, but of course running a fever.

He had curled up on his side, buried beneath his covers and the afghan, and goosebumps had formed on his skin where his right forearm was dangling from the mattress, uncovered, the sleeve of his dressing gown having slid up and exposing his bare skin.

Sherlock didn't wake when John brushed his hair away from his forehead to press the back of his hand against his best friend's brow, but groaned and opened his eyes when John returned to his side a few moments later, with a glass of water and two pills, and softly shook his shoulder.

"John?" Sherlock mumbled, a confused expression on his face, and gave a quiet cough.

John grabbed the glass and the pills he had placed on the bedside table in order to wake Sherlock. "Yes," he answered quietly, his hand clenching the glass. "Here. Take these pills and drink. You have a temperature."

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he struggled into a sitting position, not letting go of his covers. "Drink?" he mumbed hoarsely, but accepted the glass obediently when John handed it to him, as well as the pills.

"Yes," John confirmed. Fever, exhaustion, possible headache. Nothing unusual for Sherlock, not when he hadn't slept in days and had ingested hardly more than cigarette smoke, tea and the occasional slice of unbuttered toast. But this time, Sherlock actually _looked _drawn, tired, and that was, maybe, what worried John the most. Because even when Sherlock had not got any sleep for ages, after a long, demanding case, he never appeared tired, no matter how knackered he really was.

Well, John couldn't help but think and swallowed thickly, but then, Sherlock's overall health had been better before he had got shot.

He tightened his jaw and took the glass from Sherlock when his best friend's eyes closed after he had swallowed the pills. "Do you feel nauseous?" he wanted to know and pressed the back of his hand against the underside of Sherlock's jaw for a moment. He would have preferred to take Sherlock's temperature, properly, with a clinical thermometer, to reassure himself that Sherlock's fever was indeed in normal range for one of his post-case crashes, and that he had not caught a bug, the flu, whatever, on top of everything, but since Sherlock didn't own a device safe for using on anything else but decaying flesh, this would have to do for now.

This time, Sherlock tried to bat his hand away, with a sluggish movement, and even blinked his eyes open. "John," he muttered. "'m fine."

John swallowed and didn't reply anything. Not queasy, then, he concluded. Still. "You will be," he corrected, letting go of Sherlock's jaw, awkwardly perched on his heels in his best friend's bedroom. For a moment, he pursed his lips before straightening his shoulders. "Right," he muttered. A night on the sofa it was, then. "Don't go to sleep yet," he told Sherlock. "Be right back, just need to call Mary."

Sherlock's head shot up. "Mary?" he croaked. "What for?"

"Well," John said and got to his feet, flexing the fingers of his left hand. "Can't leave you on your own tonight, can I?" he said, awkwardly. Chances were that Sherlock would just be fine, after a good night's rest and a decent breakfast, but John wasn't willing to take any risk. Not again.

Sherlock kept staring at him. John was waiting for him to roll his eyes and hiss in protest, but instead, Sherlock's eyelids slid shut and his head lolled back to the pillow beneath him. "John," he mumbled. "Go home. 'm fine."

John swallowed, hesitated. Sherlock _had _been under a lot of stress lately, had worked, quite possibly, for days on end, had slept far too little, had eaten next to nothing, had investigated various cases and had, as John suspected, worked on the Moriarty video on top of everything else. And it was nothing too unusual for him to crash completely once he had driven himself too far, had put too much strain on his body. And yet… "You're coming down with something," John remarked and tried to ignore the cold fist that had clamped around his heart at the thought of Moriarty and, even worse, Sherlock _and _Moriarty. "How long have you had that cough?"

As if on cue, Sherlock cleared his throat, probably an attempt to stifle yet another cough. "Don' know," he mumbled. "Working."

John pursed his lips. Working, of course. "How long have you been awake?" he wanted to know.

Sherlock shifted until he was once more on his right side, facing John, the light from the corridor emphasising both his paleness and the dark circles around his eyes. For all his intelligence and brilliance, Sherlock could be more than remarkably dense when it came to his own body's needs, John thought not for the first time. The grip around his heart tightened immediately as soon as he remembered that _one _night, him, Sherlock and Mary in 221B, Sherlock in bloody pain and John too furious to see.

"Sherlock?" he addressed his best friend.

"Mh," Sherlock muttered and frowned. "Don' know," he repeated.

John stifled a sigh, and when he returned his gaze to Sherlock, his best friend was, once more, staring at him. "Go home," he said, and for a moment, there seemed to be something like… regret in his eyes. "'ll be perfectly fine without you."

He would, probably, John told himself. Sherlock was always fine after cases, had even been fine the one time he had collapsed in Lestrade's office, and it probably was nothing. A bit of a cough, maybe.

"And you shouldn' sleep on the sofa," Sherlock added, his words slurred. "'s no good for your neck."

It wasn't, John had to admit, and the prospect of sleeping in his own bed instead of Sherlock's worn sofa did have a certain appeal.

"Fine," he finally muttered and made up his mind. "I'll get your mobile, and you will call me as soon as you feel worse, alright?"

"'m fine…," Sherlock began, a claim which was quickly swallowed by another cough that shook him and had him wheezing for breath afterwards.

John's throat narrowed, and the words intended to cut Sherlock's insistence off never made it out of his throat. "Breathe," he croaked instead and then, when Sherlock's coughing had subsided fully and he was, in fact, breathing, added: "You _will _call me, alright? No matter how late it is. Sherlock."

Sherlock grunted noncommittally and attempted to bury his nose in his pillow.

"Sherlock," John repeated. "Promise me that you'll phone me as soon as you feel worse."

"John," Sherlock slurred eventually, "go home. …fine."

He retrieved Sherlock's phone from where it had been lying on the table in the kitchen and placed it on his best friend's bedside table, along with a fresh glass of water. Then he hesitated, simply stood there for a few more minutes, listened to Sherlock's slowing, deepening breathing, and could not resist the urge to feel for his temperature once more.

Sherlock winced when John's palm made contact with his forehead, and his eyelids fluttered open. "John," he mumbled and sounded so tired that John's heart twisted. "What're you still doin' here?"

Making sure that his best friend was okay, or at least close to okay, would have been the correct answer. Trying to make sure that his bloody best friend didn't do anything stupid, didn't wreak havoc on himself and his own life, again, that he was safe and fine and there. John swallowed thickly and removed his hand. "Go to sleep," he mumbled. "I have to work tomorrow, but I'll pick you up after work, and you're going to have dinner with Mary and me. And you're actually going to eat something."

Sherlock blinked, and coughed. "John-," he began.

John didn't let him finish. "No," he said. "I will. And I don't care if you're busy."

Another coughing fit shook Sherlock's shoulders.

"Get some sleep," John repeated and got to his feet. "Take it slow tomorrow, alright?"

Sherlock didn't reply to that, and, a few seconds after his breathing had evened out, John left the room.

When he left almost two hours later, after having made sure that Sherlock was still asleep, and that his fever was still low-grade and not skyrocketing, the lingering uneasiness, worry, somewhere among his intestines accompanied John all the way home.

(-)

Sherlock woke to the sound of his own coughing and didn't, at first, know where he was.

His throat was on fire as his heaving lungs catapulted him back to consciousness, and the dark room around him swayed and lurched unsteadily, making him dizzy while he was blinking to keep his eyes open and attempting to catch his breath and not launch into more coughing at the same time.

He struggled into a sitting position, unheeding of the turning, rolling walls around him, and simply breathed for a few seconds, waited for the fit to abate that, once it had, left him with a familiar pulsating in his temples and a stale taste in his mouth.

He was in his bed, Sherlock registered slowly, in his own room, and he felt… heavy. Everything felt heavy, his arms, his legs; his head was pounding unpleasantly, and he was shivering in the revolting cold of his room, in his tee and trousers and dressing gown and despite his duvet.

Biting down another rising cough, he grabbed hold of the covers and the ugly afghan that was, curiously, lying on his bed, and pulled them up, for a bit of warmth around his arms and shoulders.

Bed, he mused and barely noticed that his eyelids were drooping, lest alone attempted to stop them. Bed… How had he…

John had been here, this realisation hit him with a sudden force and made him jerk, enough to aggravate his stiff muscles, his eyes flying open. John had been here, some time ago, had found him on the sofa, tired and sleeping, and… John had been here, at 221B instead of his own flat, with Mary, although he wasn't supposed to be, and Sherlock… Sherlock had let him.

Stupid, so stupid.

A fierce stab of pain shot through Sherlock's temples and forehead when he attempted to remember what John had said, whether he was still here, whether…

Transport. Failing transport. Disgusting. Immensely impractical, especially now, when he needed to concentrate and to remain alert, needed to find out who was behind the Moriarty video, what their intentions were, if they planned, in any way, to continue in Moriarty's footsteps and endanger the people Sherlock valued most in his life.

Endanger John.

The dark world around him tilted again, and this time, Sherlock couldn't tell whether it was because of his fever - because he had a temperature, probably - or because of the sudden fear that sprang on him at these thoughts.

John could not be allowed to be in danger again. He had a family now, and a mistake like Sherlock had made with Magnussen simply was not allowed to occur again, a mistake that could cost John everything, destroy everything.

Sherlock's throat narrowed, and the annoying tickling that lingered there grew overwhelming, a feeling causing him to shudder and his throat to blaze in anticipation of the pain of a forceful cough.

Then he did start coughing, the room spinning, and squeezed his eyes shut, shivering and shuddering.

Sleep, John's voice told him, sleep. Then he would be fine.

And because he would be fine, John - who wasn't here any longer, had gone home, because otherwise he would have heard Sherlock's coughing, would have come in already, to check on him, as he always did - would not feel obliged to come over and keep him company, but could instead stay with his family, the family he deserved and that deserved him, and not with Sherlock.

Fine, he repeated to himself, his brain far too hazy, and swallowed despite his narrowing throat, everything would be fine.

(-)

Sleep, of course, evaded him for the rest of the night, after he had woken, breathless and shivering.

Sherlock's eyelids were leaden weights over his eyeballs, and his brain didn't stop reminding him that it was ready to shut off, with its slowness and numbness, and yet he could not go back to sleep, the ability to rest, wanted for once, not returning to him.

The cold kept him awake, the cold around him despite his duvet and Mrs Hudson's afghan, the cold in the room and the cold in him.

The cold, and his own coughing.

He had contemplated whether he would manage to get up and swallow more of the cough suppressant he had found, and maybe another pill, but when he had tried to sit up and clamber to his feet and everything had rolled and turned and swayed, he had sunk back to his bed, too tired and too sluggish to try again, and had given up the thought. Had curled in on himself, to fence off the cold, had buried beneath the afghan, had closed his eyes and did his best to control his breathing and his shivering, and yet did not fall asleep.

John, a voice in his head whispered, call John.

John… John who was at home, in his own bed, with his wife, sleeping, resting. Who couldn't do anything against his coughing, or his being cold - his fever, the part of his brain still functioning kept telling him - and who would only worry pointlessly.

And his phone was far away, so far away on his bedside table, and he could not possibly invest the energy to move the bulky mass of immovable stone his arm had morphed into, or the energy that would be needed to coax his eyes into opening and type out a text.

Fine, he tried to convince his brain, fine.

Perfectly fine.

Another coughing fit overwhelmed him, and all that remained to do for Sherlock was to roll to his side, bonelessly, and try to heave in breaths sufficient to please his lungs.

The fit abated, finally, and he was alone with his shivering once more, alone in the dark.

Alone in the dark. A dark, wet cell, not allowed to sleep, not…

"No," he croaked and didn't even know who he was talking to. There was no-one here, there never had been anyone, not in two years.

"No," he repeated and coughed, cramping both of his hands into his sheets. "No!"

No, he wasn't alone any more, no, he was back home, he was fine, and John was safe, and…

Sherlock drew his knees to his chest, whether for warmth or comfort or to stifle his coughing and stop his lungs from convulsing, he did not know.

Call John, the voice repeated, and Sherlock didn't want to hear it as another violent shudder seized him, and he tried to curl up even more tightly.

"No," he repeated quietly to himself and concentrated on taking flat, shallow breaths.

Fine, he was fine. Or would be.

It wasn't until much later that he finally fell asleep, exhausted and still cold, huddled into his duvet and Mrs Hudson's blanket that somehow, inexplicably, still smelled like her.

* * *

_Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think, and I will do my best to actually reply this time..._


	5. 5

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed, followed or favourited -you really make my days while I'm struggling to write anything at all.  
_

_Thank you very much, Dangsoo, for betaing once more! (Any remaining typing mistakes are still mine.)_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Never By Halves**

**5**

* * *

When Sherlock's eyes opened to pale morning sun falling into his bedroom, his body needed a few moments to take in his surroundings and to realise that he had, somehow, fallen asleep, finally, despite the cold, despite his continuous coughing. And now something had woken him up, something, a noise penetrating the silence, a noise that was, as he realised slowly, his ringing phone, shrill and loud and pulsating through his pounding head.

Sherlock coughed and squeezed his eyes shut; immediately, another cough seized him and left him breathless, a sweating and shivering wreck.

He blinked slowly, forced his heavy lids open in order to stay awake and did his best to breathe evenly, flatly. His feet were trapped in his duvet, Sherlock registered once his eyes had managed to focus on his bedroom around him, his phone still blaring, and Mrs Hudson's afghan had wrapped itself around his torso, around his chest and his sore lungs, his trachea burning with every heavy, flat breath he drew. When Sherlock tried to lift his head from where it rested partly against the pillow, partly against the headboard, the room swam around him, a bizarre distortion, and he barely succeeded in summoning the energy to extend his arm and grab his mobile with numb and shaky fingers.

"Yes," he croaked, a hoarse, quiet sound, and bit back another rising cough.

"Mr 'Olmes," a voice answered, a voice Sherlock knew but needed a few moments to recognise.

Billy. Billy Wiggins, calling him.

"Billy," he rasped and slumped back into the pillow, a weak echo of the exultation he usually felt whenever Billy brought news from his homeless network washing over him. News, there had to be news. "Anything?"

"Yeah," Billy Wiggins, who had somehow become Sherlock's most faithful and most useful street operator, confirmed. "Brilliant news. Got Miller. Tha' fellow ya wanna speak ta, remember?"

Despite himself, Sherlock's eyes closed, a shudder rippling through him. Miller, yes. The man he had been after for weeks, the one he hoped to extract information from on the network of insurance frauds he was investigating on Mycroft's behalf. He had his suspicions, of course, but in order to complete the case and fulfil his part of the deal with Mycroft's superiors, he would need proof, so… Another cough interrupted his thoughts and burnt in his lungs, cutting off whatever Billy Wiggins had been saying on the other end of the line.

"Mr 'Olmes?" Sherlock heard him ask as soon as he was able to draw breath again, the fingers of his free hand cramped into his creased trousers, goosebumps everywhere on his skin.

Needed to investigate, needed to question Miller. John would, no doubt, be disappointed in him, would be angry because Sherlock hadn't listened to his words, because Sherlock was working on a case, without him, again, but it… it was necessary. Could be his only chance to get to Miller, maybe.

"Fine, Billy," Sherlock croaked and sat up, the world turning around him. "Text me the address. I'll be there."

Another shudder grabbed Sherlock; he coughed again. Of course it was not actually cold in his room, had not been cold in the night; instead he rather _felt _cold, most likely due to a low-grade temperature.

Disgusting.

Half past ten in the morning, the bright screen of his mobile informed him after he had ended the call, and Sherlock's brain stumbled, to his irritation, over the simple task of finding out how long he had slept, how many hours he had allowed to go by without doing anything productive, without working.

Too many, he decided, but not worth the effort of finding out how long he had slept precisely. Needed to get up, medication, shower, get dressed. Work.

His mobile chimed in his loose grip just when another cough caught hold of his throat and lungs, his left hand clenching into Mrs Hudson's afghan.

Text. Not Billy Wiggins.

From John, of course.

_Everything alright? Care to text me when you__'__re awake? J_

John had been here yesterday, in the evening, had made sure that he slept, and that he slept in his bed, had… Sherlock recalled, very vaguely, the sensation of a warm, familiar hand on his forehead, of someone - John - tucking a blanket around him, and…

No, he decided, and removed his thumb that had been hovering over the screen, slipping the phone into the pocket of his dressing gown. If he did not reply to John's text, if he kept ignoring John, John would, without any doubt, get annoyed first, then angry and would, finally, hopefully, stop texting Sherlock altogether, would realise that he was better off without Sherlock, without the danger he presented, constantly.

Sherlock swallowed and slowly manoeuvred his legs to the edge of the mattress, got to his feet, the world lurching around him. It was, without any doubt, better this way for all involved parties, he told himself.

Taking a flat, quick breath, he started making his way away from his bed, slowly, oddly slowly, towards the bathroom door, just a few steps, shivering even harder in the cool air without his cocoon of covers and hideous blanket.

Medication, Sherlock's mind listed as he stumbled against the bathroom door and managed to push it open, needed medication. Something for his headache, cough suppressants to get rid of that constant tickling, tea, maybe. John's tea, the thought occurred before he could stop it, but of course it was stupid. John wasn't here, rightly so, and Sherlock was indeed capable of making his own tea.

His mobile announced another text just when Sherlock flopped down to the toilet seat, his knees shaking. John, again.

_And call me asap if you feel worse! I'll pick you up at __half past four__. See you in the evening. J_

Sherlock's eyelids fell shut, chills chasing each other up and down his spine in the cool air of the bathroom. "Fine, John," he whispered, then coughed, the fit burning in his lungs and tearing at his throat. Fine.

If he didn't text John back, if he didn't text him at all, then maybe John would forget to pick him up, would forget about the invitation he had offered without a second thought, would be too angry to put up with Sherlock any longer.

Better that way.

Something in Sherlock's chest twisted, but he ignored it as he forced his legs to carry his weight once more, hands clenched around the cool surface of the wash-bowl to steady himself.

You machine, John's voice commented in his head, but Sherlock ignored him as well, ignored the tightness in his chest, ignored the sudden throbbing of his scar. Better that way.

I will burn the heart out of you, James Moriarty added, lips pulled back to reveal bared teeth, his dead face frozen in a devilish grimace.

"No," Sherlock croaked, took two deep breaths through his nose, exhaled through his mouth. No.

When he raised his head again, he suddenly found himself staring at his own reflection in the mirror, not at James Moriarty's dead face, not at John, his skin blistering because of the heat of the bonfire.

Deduce, Mycroft spoke up, the voice of reason, of logic, always. Deduce.

Pale, sallow complexion, shadows around his eyes, cheeks highlighted with red hues, sweat accumulating on his forehead - pointing towards a temperature indeed. Narrowed eyes while staring at the bright surface - headache, obviously, a constant, nagging feeling pulsating through his skull and threatening to pierce every single one of his thoughts. Inconvenient. Needed to concentrate.

Deduce, Mycroft's voice repeated, but for now, Sherlock would not have any of it. "Mind over matter," he muttered to himself and shook his head briefly, as if to shake off the dizziness that continued to lunge at him.

He needed a shower, a hot shower to chase away the cold in his very bones and the heaviness attacking his limbs. Shower, something for the headache, cough suppressants, and then…

Then he had some work to do.

He didn't pay attention to the warning voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like John, telling him that he could not simply suppress his cough, that this would most likely make it worse, on purpose.

(-)

His shivering had increased once he had showered, dressed, caught a cab and had sat down on the backseat, huddled into his coat and his scarf and waited for the pills he had taken to kick in and make him feel… close to human again.

The address Billy had indeed texted him came over his lips without a cough, and Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his head back, breathing heavily but determined not to fall asleep again. Just a few hours of talking to Miller, then an evening with John and Mary, for John, unless he did change his mind, and then he could go home and to bed, covered by every blanket he could find without walking around for too long.

Mrs Hudson, he remembered dazedly as another shiver gripped him, while the coughing had thankfully lessened for the time being, Mrs Hudson owned an entire stack of blankets. Once she was back, he mused, back from wherever she had gone, he would ask her to fetch some for him, and maybe she would even make him tea, or muffins.

Since his stomach growled again threateningly at the mere thought of muffins, Sherlock opened his eyes and stared out of the window, into the bright sun.

He wrapped his arms more tightly around himself and hoped that, whatever building Billy Wiggins was in, the heating there was working.

(-)

Questioning Miller - Billy Wiggins and two other members of his homeless network had not only managed to spot the man, but also to corner him and detain him inside of one of Billy's many hiding places - went nowhere near as well as Sherlock had hoped, and was even more draining than the journey to Billy's bolt-hole.

Miller was not, in general, unwilling to answer questions, the difficulty was rather that Sherlock found himself increasingly unable to ask them, because he could, surrounded by cold and icy air, hardly draw enough breath to form more but one or two words at a time.

"So did you…," he tried again in his painfully hoarse voice, and couldn't go on because another rattling cough broke free, a bout leaving him with a mushy substance of unknown consistency in his mouth that Sherlock decided to swallow down rather than spit out in front of several other people.

"Mr 'Olmes…," Billy Wiggins began at least for the third time, but once more, Sherlock cut him off with a shaky wave of the hand he had not pressed against his lungs, hidden by his coat; an invisible confession of his weakness.

"…fine," he rasped, and refrained from shaking his head. One, two, three heavy breaths later the fog in his head cleared a bit, and he felt able to continue his interrogation. "Mr Miller, did you…"

It had to be the air in here, Sherlock thought fuzzily as he failed to finish this sentence, too, once more interrupted by a coughing fit. Something had to be in the air that tickled his lungs, and narrowed his airway and made breathing a challenge, something… Interesting, maybe. Might even require an experiment to test the consistency of…

"Oh, for God's sake," Miller, so far rather pleasant about answering the few questions Sherlock had managed to choke out, exclaimed. "That's disgusting! Go home and see a doctor and stop spilling your germs everywhere, really…"

Doctor, Sherlock's sluggish brain repeated. Doctor. John. Should see John, maybe.

Despite everything John might think of him - especially after what he had done months ago, what he had done while perfectly aware that it had been the only possibility to keep John's life from collapsing completely if he found out about Mary otherwise -, Sherlock was not always entirely ignorant when it came to the needs of his own body.

Call John, a part of his brain told him again, and Sherlock could feel his resistance crumble, very gradually. Persistent, frequent cough, drowsiness and dizziness infesting him, running a temperature, possibly. Flu after all, he mused distractedly while remembering John's words, John's suggestion that Sherlock call him, maybe, when he felt worse. Call John… John was at work, he had said, at work, busy with patients, couldn't possibly be distracted now. Busy. Working.

Another cough tore at Sherlock's lungs, leaving him with more of the mushy substance in his mouth, and his eyes closed. John would stop by anyway, this evening, he told himself. No need to call John yet, no need to disturb John, to annoy him and…

This time, his coughing almost had Sherlock doubling over with its vehemence.

"Mr 'Olmes…," Billy said again, and finally, Sherlock gave in.

He hurt as he got to his feet, everything hurt, and his legs and arms felt as if… as if they didn't even belong to his body, as if they had been ripped off of some corpse in Molly's morgue and had simply been attached to his torso, regardless of whether this gave them the ability to function and carry his weight.

It felt different, utterly different, from the times he had shot up on heroin, to divert himself from the tedium of life without cases and exhilaration, from the vastness that life was without John.

Different, and…

That he had swayed and almost fallen he only registered when he noticed Billy's hands around his shoulders, keeping him upright and steadying him.

"'m fine," he said again, and it sounded awfully weak even to his own ears. John. He needed John. Would see John this evening, for dinner. John.

Another coughing fit passed, Billy's hands still on his shoulders, before Sherlock could state the obvious: "I think I'd rather… go home."

Miller snorted sarcastically.

"Er…," Billy Wiggins said rather dumbly, and Sherlock shook his head. "I'm fine," he repeated and straightened out of the other man's grip. "Keep me… updated."

"Shouldn' we…," Billy began again.

Sherlock walked towards the exit as quickly as his legs, the legs that maybe didn't even belong to him, would allow it. "No," he replied, without coughing, and let the door that had opened, or that he had opened, somehow, without realising that he had done so, fall shut behind him.

No, Wiggins absolutely shouldn't escort him home. He just needed a cab, and a bit of warmth to dispel the freezing cold that kept attacking him depite his coat and made him shiver, and sleep, and then he would be fine. Maybe. Possibly. Finally.

John had texted him, he registered with narrowed, bleary as he coughed again, in the cold, dry air outside. Had texted him, twice, and…

_Spaghetti alright for you? And you__'__re still sure that you__'__re well enough to come over? No problem if not. J_

And another one, newer, a text Sherlock didn't understand because John sounded weird, didn't sound angry, rather… panicked.

_Sherlock, text me, will you? Are you alright? I swear, I'll come over if I don't hear from you! J_

No problem if not, John said. He shouldn't, maybe, should refrain from disturbing John and Mary's lives any further, should refrain from developing an attachment to their child, a child they surely wouldn't want to grow up with frequent visits from a murderer, regardless of why he had done it. Better him than John, he thought dazedly and leaned against the wall of a building for a moment.

But no, John had asked him to come, and if he didn't…

Needed to text John, to reply, because if he didn't, then John would come to 221B, would interrupt his shift at work, would leave his patients who needed him, would get fired, would lose his job. Needed to reply.

Squinting his blurring eyes and with a pounding that had now settled itself somewhere in the back of his head, he typed out an answer with shaking fingers while at the same time, still feeling oddly dazed, trying to search for a cab.

_Fine. No need to. See you. S_

Dropping his heavy mobile into his pocket, Sherlock stifled a cough, bit it down, held his breath, and wanted, for a moment, nothing else but to be back home, beneath the warmth of his covers and with a cup of John's hot tea next to him.

Wanted, of course, what he didn't possibly have the right to have.

(-)

Sherlock had to stop and pause for breath halfway up the stairs to 221B. Distantly he realised that he was swaying on his feet, his tight grip to the handrail doing little to help him keep his balance and steady him. His other arm was clasping his stomach, as if to coax his lungs into drawing breath and not betraying him, and yet he couldn't stop.

Couldn't stop, and couldn't breathe, and…

Shallow breaths, shallow, not deep, a voice inside of his head told him, reminded him. Shallow, flat.

Sherlock held his breath, his heart thrumming in his chest, pounding against his ribs and in his throat and resonating in his head.

Held his breath, and…

He was shaking, trembling, he became aware of hazily, from exhaustion, and shivers crept up his spine and caused him to stumble again.

The next step came too late, was too high, and his grip on the handrail wasn't strong enough to keep him upright. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, toppling forwards, and tried to heave for breath.

Getting to his feet once more took far too much effort, and for a few moments, while he stared ahead dazedly, his brain too sluggish to process anything, he wondered if he could simply stay here, on the stairs, and… rest. Just rest, for a while.

The cold wrecking his entire body stopped him, as well as the thought of John coming home and finding him curled up on the steps.

John… John. Home.

It wasn't home, he mused with his foggy brain, wasn't John's home any more. John's home was Mary now, Mary, and the baby, and…

Another fit of hacking, rattling coughing cut off his thoughts, and Sherlock simply tried to concentrate on making it upstairs without passing out or being suffocated by the organs supposed to keep him alive.

(-)

Sherlock still couldn't stop coughing by the time he had stumbled out of the hot shower, the damp moisture wetting his raw throat a tiny bit, and was on his way to the kitchen, only wrapped into a towel, agonisingly long ten steps.

Of course the urge to cough didn't disappear immediately after he had swallowed a rather large portion of the cough suppresant, and of course his shivering - no doubt due to a temperature, a voice in his head that sounded rather like John kept reminding him - didn't abate immediately after he had ingested two more pills of paracetamol.

A quick glance at his watch he had dropped to the kitchen table while undressing uncoordinatedly confirmed that he still had… one hour, at least, until John would have finished working for today and get in his car to pick him up.

One hour. One hour to get something done, to text Billy Wiggins further instructions, to watch the Moriarty video for the hundredth time.

He tried to stifle another cough and failed as he turned back unsteadily, towards his bedroom, remembering to grab his mobile from his coat pocket.

His bed was a mess, his sheets no doubt sweaty and in utter disarray, but Sherlock couldn't have cared less as he slumped down on the mattress, clutching his towel for a tiny bit of warmth as he buried himself beneath the covers.

Alarm, needed to set his alarm…

His fingers ghosted over the screen of his mobile, quivering, and the clock and the numbers were swimming in a way that increased his dizziness, but somehow, he managed it.

The mobile still tightly in one hand, almost entirely submerged beneath the only moderately warm covers, he fell into an exhausted sleep.

(-)

With a shrill cacophony of sounds, the phone in his hand blurted to life, startling him into unpleasant wakefulness.

John, he remembered, needed to get to John and Mary, and needed to look acceptable.

His skin was sweaty and clammy, but Sherlock doubted that he would be able to muster the energy take another shower _and _get dressed and presentable.

No shower then, he thought fuzzily as he clambered out of his bed, his legs trembling beneath him. Clothes, needed clothes, other than his damp towel, needed shoes, coat, scarf.

Unread text messages from John, his mobile informed him, but Sherlock didn't have the time to care right now.

Needed to get dressed, needed to take more medication, needed to wait for John to arrive and needed to visit John and Mary, after they had invited him. Needed to be presentable…

A coughing fit that ripped through his trachea stopped his efforts momentarily, forcing him to hover in an uncomfortable position on the edge of his mattress, not quite standing, not quite sitting, but slumped over, one weak arm pressed against his heaving chest.

More medication, probably, needed more medication.

The trousers he had worn earlier that day were… Sherlock didn't remember, to his sudden shock, and after a moment of utter dread that would have taken his breath away if he had had any to be taken, he realised that he didn't care.

New pair of trousers was it, then, from his cupboard in his bedroom, much closer, much…

If he had doubted that he had a temperature before, he could be sure now, once he stood in front of his cupboard, heaving shallow, rapid breaths through his mouth and desperately fighting the urge to cough again. He was cold, so cold, and yet could feel a trickle of sweat down his bare back, and moisture plastering his hair, still wet from his earlier hot shower, to his face and his scalp.

Trousers, shirt, jacket, socks. Shoes, his shoes, where were his…

Sherlock sat down heavily on the only chair in his bedroom, forcing himself to take more shallow breaths, not quite as deep, in order not to trigger more coughing. Shoes… Kitchen, probably, or bathroom, where he had kicked them off when he had come home, stumbling into the shower cubicle.

If he called John now, told him that he couldn't make it, lied to him that he was busy, couldn't spare the time… It wouldn't work, Sherlock realised dazedly as he got his feet again, closing his eyes for a moment. John was clever, and John knew him, and if he called John now, hoarse and coughing, John would never believe him, but would probably come over anyway, because he felt responsible as a doctor, or because… maybe because he was John's friend, still, and… and he would not spend a nice, comfortable evening with the woman he had chosen to marry and who was carrying his child.

"No," Sherlock whispered and spotted his shoes on the floor in front of the bathroom door. No, he had to go. For John.

He slipped his coat on, lying on the kitchen table, together with his scarf, thankful for the ounce of warmth the heavy material provided, before he sat down again to tie his shoe laces, with trembling fingers and interrupted by an occasional cough, before he took another large sip from the cough suppressant, and before he took another pill to get rid of his fever, to get rid of the headache that had stubbornly accompanied him for the… He didn't even know how long it had been, the days were blurring together in his hazy brain, and for a moment, it terrified him.

Fever, he forced himself to remember, fever did this. He would be fine, just needed a bit of rest once he'd eaten dinner with Mary and John.

Or rather, as his throat prickled and his stomach protested at the mere thought of food, watch John and Mary eat dinner.

For a moment, his back against the cupboard to steady him, he contemplated taking the bottle of cough suppressant as well as the pill package with him, but decided against it. John would worry even more if he found out, and Sherlock would never hear the end of it.

He would be fine, in the end, he told himself again. Just a bit of a cold, or maybe a touch of flu. He would be fine.

* * *

_Thank you for reading; please let me know what you thought. I could really do with a little encouragement right now. ;)  
_


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